


Pariah

by AuctaSinistra



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 02:37:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18274085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuctaSinistra/pseuds/AuctaSinistra
Summary: Dashed off because I was challenged to do "Snape pursues Harry" :)





	Pariah

Barlow, the butler, met Martin at the service entrance on his first day of work. The old man said nothing about Martin's tardiness (the house was large, and he'd had to walk all the way around to the back, following Barlow's written instructions), merely led him down in the cavernous white-walled kitchen in the cellars, introduced him to Rita, the housekeeper, then sat him down at the long wooden table and explained things.

"You might as well know right off, this is a queer household. The last man, Arcotte, couldn't deal with it. He was curious. Wanted to know things." Barlow stared narrow-eyed at Martin. "The master don't answer questions, Mr. Martin, you'd best know that here and now. He pays well and the work's light, but this is a queer house and you'll have questions."

"But no answers," Rita piped up, and Barlow nodded.

Martin considered. Said, "We're it? The three of us for a house this size?"

"Most of the rooms is locked up," Rita said. "We aint never seen the inside of them."

Barlow glared at her and she closed her mouth.

"As I say, the work's light. Rita cooks and cleans and I manage the bills and ordering of things. Groceries, clothes, furniture, whatever the master requires. He doesn't go out, he has no company - except that doctor fellow once a month—"

"I don't think he is a doctor," Rita put in. "Not a proper one—"

Another glare from Barlow. "And for you, maintaining the grounds and fixing things as break, plumbing and fences and the like."

"I remember the terms of the contract," Martin said. "But the place is a lot bigger than the advert implied. I'll need some help keeping the place in this kind of trim."

Barlow and Rita looked at one another.

"Don't tell me the last man did it all by himself," Martin challenged.

"It's a queer place," Barlow said. "You'll find there's not much to do. The master is quiet and easy to get along with, but he doesn't like to be disturbed."

"Any more than 'e is," Rita muttered.

"Stop it, girl," Barlow said, without real venom.

Concerned, Martin asked, "Will I meet the master?"

"I expect you'll meet him sooner or later. He walks in the gardens betimes, when he's feeling all right."

"He's ill, then?" Martin asked. Barlow shrugged.

"I think he's had an injury he's still recovering from. He's told us that's the reason for the visits by the doctor fellow; he administers some sort of treatment once a month."

"No visitors apart from the doctor?" Martin asked. "Is the master elderly? Has he no family?"

"We don't know if he has, and we don't ask," Barlow said firmly. "The master has made it clear he expects us to do our work and mind our business. The last groundskeeper was unable to do that. I hope you'll do better."

"I shall," Martin said, and the butler stood up.

"Good. I'll show you your quarters now; you're in the old stableblock. It's very comfortable."

* * *

Queer. That was the word for it, Martin thought as he strolled the still immaculate grounds a fortnight later. He'd yet to sweep a leaf or trim a hedge - though it was summer and things should have been growing apace - or catch a glimpse of his employer. And that was just the beginning of the queerness.

For one thing, there were owls. Owls nearly every day, sometimes more than one, different breeds (some clearly, mysteriously nonnative). Tame owls apparently, as they all carried letters. At least Martin assumed that was what they were, the red envelopes that dangled from their feet as they soared up the long treelined drive. Every owl swooped gracefully under the tall white-marble portico and dropped its burden into the wicker bin that stood beside the front door, but when Martin looked inside on his occasional passes, the bin was always empty. A font of fresh water and a railing, evidently for use as an owl rest-stop, had been installed next to the entryway, but the owls never stopped to rest or drink before departing.

So if they were letters, Martin thought whimsically, evidently no reply was expected.

Then there was the shouting.

The staff took their meals together in the kitchen, which was connected by a stair and short corridor to the small dining parlor the master used for his meals. Occasionally he would ring for something and Barlow or Rita would go, leaving the connecting doors open. Sometimes Martin heard nothing. But sometimes he heard voices, and whenever he did, they were shouting in anger. Different voices, though Rita and Barlow assured him the master was always alone. Perhaps it was telly, though the others never confirmed that theory. Martin could only pick out isolated words. "Murderer" was frequent, also "betrayed," "children," and "destroyed;" once he heard "dark lord." But if it was a programme the master was watching, it was a relentlessly furious one.

* * *

One day the order came through Barlow to Martin that the master wanted some roses cut from the bushes around the front door, to be placed in vases in the front hall. Astounded at having been given actual work, Martin stared for a moment.

"What's the occasion?" he asked.

Barlow said nothing; Rita, washing up, cast a smile Martin's way and said:

"That doctor fellow's due today. Don't think the master'd be givin' 'im flowers, though." She laughed as if that were the funniest thing she could imagine. When Martin looked to Barlow for a translation, the old butler just scowled and walked away.

So Martin cut the burgundy and pink roses from around the front door, fetched water from the kitchen and did his amateur best to arrange the blooms appealingly in the tall white vases in the dim, cool hall. He was adjusting the last vase, moving it minuscule distances to create some asymmetry, when a bar of light appeared on the marble floor, widening to a rectangle as he straightened up and turned to the front door.

A tall man, black-haired, black-clad, stood scowling at him, the fingers of one hand still on the door handle. He held a small valise in his other hand.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"Martin, sir," Martin replied. "Groundskeeper." Was this the master, or that doctor fellow who was supposed to be arriving? The bag suggested the latter, but Martin had no way of knowing.

"Ah," the man said, closing the door behind him. "The new one." He took one step closer and looked Martin over, black eyes sharp and somehow invasive.

Martin glanced at the last vase. It would do, and he had a vague sensation of danger that left him eager to depart.

"If you'll excuse me, sir," he began, edging toward the front door. The black stare snapped away from him as a door along the hall opened and another man came out - then stopped.

He was young, younger than Martin himself, he surmised, thin and pale and pinched around the eyes, with ragged dark hair that hung down around a surprised face.

"Don't you ever ring?" he demanded. "Or knock? Or anything?"

Martin stepped quickly out of the line of fire between the two men.

The man in black said calmly, "It's bad enough that due to your paranoia I cannot Apparate to your door. Your butler takes entirely too long to let me in. If you expect me to stand on ceremony with you at this late date, Potter, you've another think coming."

Potter - Martin's employer - glanced at Martin.

"You're the new groundskeeper?" he said.

"Yes sir," Martin rapped out. "I was arranging the roses." He waved toward the vases, saw green eyes take them in with a glance.

"You can go," Potter said, returning his attention to his guest.

Martin sidled to the front door, neither hurrying nor obviously dawdling.

"Come in, professor," his employer said.

The man in back swept past Martin and followed Potter into the back of the house. Martin opened the front door, but turned and watched them, noting the taut but smooth stride of the older man and the slightly canted limp of the younger. They rounded a corner and Martin left the house to return to his work.

An hour later the front door opened and Martin glanced up from his cleanup to see both men step out, one tall and stern in tidy black attire, the other rumpled in a baggy sweatshirt and jeans, shading his eyes against the sinking sun.

"Thank you for coming, professor."

"Don't thank me. I come only out of respect for the headmaster's wishes. I myself could not care less whether you live or die."

Martin was surprised to hear the weary amusement in his employer's reply.

"All the more reason for me to thank you, don't you think?"

Martin was even more surprised to hear that amusement echoed in the other man's formerly biting tone.

"I imagine at least I am unique in my indifference."

"That's what I mean. It almost feels like -"

"Like what?"

Martin's employer shook his head. "Like affection."

The other man's voice fell, and Martin stopped clipping in order to hear the cold words.

"Your behavior in recent months has earned you no kind feelings from me, Mr. Potter."

"You don't have any idea -" Potter's angry reply halted as both men looked up - drawing Martin's gaze as well - to see an owl bearing a red envelope soar silently toward them. The bird dropped the letter into the bin and flapped away, and Martin looked curiously at his employer. He was staring into the wicker bin, all emotion erased from his face.

"Why do you read them?" the doctor asked, his tone nasty. "Are you so starved for fame that you consider any attention good attention?"

Potter leaned against the doorframe, gaunt and white. "Just don't, all right?" Green eyes fixed on the doctor for a moment, then wandered to the gardens, to the distance.

The doctor emitted a snarling sort of huff and snapped up one hand in a dismissive gesture. Martin bent his head and continued to work, watching out of the corner of his eye as the doctor whirled away from the door and stalked, stiff with anger, down the drive.

Martin collected his shears and the leftover twigs and leaves, thinking that at least now he understood Rita's amusement at the idea of the master giving that man flowers.

The next day while Martin made his usual pointless rounds of the still-tidy gardens - he understood why Arcotte had quit; this weird stasis of living growing things was starting to give him the willies - he spotted yet another letter-bearing owl swooping up the drive. Something odd about it held his gaze until it passed into the shade under the portico. The owl had dropped the letter into the basket and - surprisingly - perched on the railing before Martin realized the odd thing: for the first time, the envelope wasn't red.

* * *

Harry stared at the letter on the salver as if it were an alien thing, something he'd never seen or imagined before.

When was the last time he'd got a letter? A letter. Not the ubiquitous howlers, not the occasional requests for an interview from various scandal rags eager to delve into the sordid details of the life of the Boy Who Fell Spectacularly From Grace. A letter.

As from a friend. But he had no friends.

In its old worn groove ran the thought and it was your own doing. After so many months it almost didn't hurt.

He prodded the letter with his index finger. It was addressed to Harry Potter, Waverly Hall, Devon. He didn't know the writing and there was, of course, no return address.

Nervously he picked it up, holding it by the edges, feeling it for hexes or curses although the one benefit of what he'd done was that most wizards and witches were too afraid of him to try anything of the sort. They were content to hate him from afar.

He sensed nothing, though the envelope carried a faint and pleasant scent, slightly musky, familiar though not precisely identifiable.

Harry opened the envelope and slid the letter out. It was a single sheet, in the same tidy, nondescript hand as the address.

 

Dear Mr. Potter;

I write this knowing mine to be a lone voice crying out in a wilderness of ignorant hatred, a wilderness in which you are lost due to circumstances in which few could have survived, let alone prevailed.

Knowing something of the mute, guilt-ridden fury attendant upon the position you now hold, I offer this as the scant comfort I know it to be: you are not guilty as you have been judged by those ignorant haters. You erred, yes. You also saved countless more lives than were lost. You defended yourself, at the start, and were, as you perceived, ignored, and so you have closed yourself off from the world. A world you believe loathes and despises you whom they once adored.

You had a long way to fall. At the bottom you found self-pitying solitude, and chose to remain there. This is not a criticism. I have been in that dark and quiet place. It is easier than continuing to fight. But it is a betrayal of those you fought for, both the survivors and those who did not survive. It is a betrayal of yourself, of your worth and potential, which are great.

I expect you will throw this letter on the fire along with the multitude of howlers you regularly receive; perhaps it seems even more threatening. But should you choose to extend your hand into the world of the living once more, my owl will await your response. I know not how much I may be able to help you. Know only that I wish to.

 

The letter was unsigned.

* * *

Rita set the tray of food down at his elbow and Harry glanced up, favoring her with a distracted smile.

"Thanks, Rita. That's all for tonight."

She bobbed her head and left and he redipped his now-dry pen, continuing to stare at the blank parchment in front of him.

He didn't know how to start.

Hell, you're afraid to start. His hand was shaking. He was terrified. Terrified of reaching out toward any hint of salvation, for fear it would be yanked away. Hope hurt too much.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, reopening them to rest on Snape's latest potion, the narrow bottle a silent rebuke before him. The one thing Snape had never called him, before all this happened, was coward.

Harry clenched his teeth and set the pen to paper.

 

Thank you for your letter. I was astonished to learn that there was someone in the wizarding world who had some idea of what really happened and yet didn't hate me.

It's true I've become a recluse. I tried to stand up for myself, for the truth. But the real truth is, I am guilty. I feel guilty. I can't defend myself when I agree with my accusers, can I? I lost everyone I loved, one way or another, and everyone who cared about me. This would be easier if I were evil, if I really did want to become the next Voldemort, like people say. I wouldn't need friends, I'd be glad that everyone hated me and was afraid of me.

But I'm angry too. I'm angry that they wanted me to be a hero, and when I did what they wanted, it wasn't good enough. I'm angry that they hate me because I'm just a human being, when they wanted a god.

I have no idea who you are, but I'm desperate enough to ask you - what can I do? What should I do?

Harry

* * *

Martin was relieved to find that there actually was some work to be done about the place once he got settled in. Though the plant life almost took care of itself, it turned out that his employer planned to convert the old barn into some sort of hobby room - the details were rather sketchy, coming as they were through Barlow, who had a frustrating tendency to ask no questions - and it required cleaning and painting inside and out. Martin began that work immediately and cheerfully, finally feeling as though he was earning his generous pay.

His curiosity about his employer remained mostly unsatisfied. He saw Mr. Potter in the house occasionally, and sometimes the man limped determinedly about the grounds, his face set in lines of pain and grief. According to Rita he spent a lot of time in his library, which was very fine, and almost every time "the professor" visited, they sniped at each other.

"What about the owls?" Martin asked.

"I don't know," Rita told him. "They're bringin' letters, like 'omin' pigeons."

I know that, Martin refrained from saying.

Young, sick, strange, rich, unhappy. The list of his employer's traits was short. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he simply asked the man. Then he remembered Arcotte. He didn't want to get sacked just when he was starting to enjoy his work. Besides, he had a theory - crazy, maybe, or maybe not - and he wanted to see what he could find out on his own.

One afternoon as he passed between the stable block and the house, he heard voices from an open window. He slowed and glanced toward the house, spotting the open French doors of the library and recognizing the acidic tones he'd heard a month before.

* * *

"Why don't you get out of this mausoleum, Potter? What are you afraid of? No one would dare try anything against you, after all."

"What's it to you?" Harry replied.

Snape stood at the cleared side table he habitually chose for his work and ground the marjoram with one last, deft twist of the wrist, pouring the grains into the phial. Harry watched, almost hypnotized. It was strange how pleasant it was to watch Snape's swift competent work, considering how irritating he was in every other way. The stuff had to be made fresh each month, necessitating more time in each other's company than either, Harry supposed, enjoyed. On the other hand, Snape had nothing but complaints about the process of repair and reconstruction going on at Hogwarts since the final battle eight months past. Harry sometimes suspected the professor was glad to exchange the hustle and chaos there for the quiet of Waverly Hall.

Not that he cared. Snape could piss up a rope for all Harry cared, except that he needed the potion.

As if in answer to his thought, Snape remarked, "I resent wasting a potion meant to save someone's life on a man who's as good as dead."

Harry sighed. He'd be angrier if Snape wasn't right, damn him. Damn them all, for making his life a living hell and then expecting him to like it.

"Where am I supposed to go? Hermione's gone, Ron … he's gone too, as good as. Should I go to Diagon Alley? Hogsmeade? Into a crowd of people who think I'm a fucking murderer, a child-killer, a Dark Lord in the making? I feel less alone here alone."

Snape stirred, lip curling. "Thank you for dismissing my existence."

"That's not what I mean and you know it. You're not my friend. You don't care about me at all."

"Selfish brat. You don't care if the world revolves around you in homage or hatred, as long as you're at its center."

"Shut up!" Harry slammed his fists onto the table, looked up at Snape, angry but feeling as if he were pleading. "Do you have to rip at me every fucking time you come here? You're saving my life with one hand and beating me up with the other. At least make up your mind."

Snape continued mixing. "What makes you think I haven't?"

* * *

Abruptly aware he'd been standing far too long near the windows, Martin hurried back to the barn, full to the top of his head with new ideas about his employer.

* * *

"Martin?"

Martin looked up from his shepherd's pie at the unprecedented sound of his employer's voice. Rita, at the oven, jumped and almost dropped the pan she was holding.

There he stood, in the doorway of the kitchen, looking around as warily as if he were a scullery maid in the great hall rather than the opposite.

"Will you come upstairs a moment? I'd like to speak to you."

His manner was so polite, so deferent, that Martin stared for a long moment before dropping his fork and stumbling to his feet.

He followed Mr. Potter up and into the main part of the house, along the main hall and into the library.

Inside his employer waved him toward a chair and sat in his own chair behind a broad walnut desk laden with books, parchment, and old-fashioned dip pens that looked as if they'd been extensively nibbled by mice. Martin had a moment to note the extremely archaic manner in which the man lived before his employer sighed softly and said:

"You were listening outside the library the other day."

Martin's heart made a kind of sideways leap in his chest. He forced himself to breathe.

"I was, sir. I'm sorry. I was passing, and I overheard, and …"

Potter smiled. "You can call me Harry, Martin. I'm not really old enough to be called sir or Mr. Potter. I'm not angry, but I need to … um … I need to know what you heard."

Martin took in a long, slow, resigned sort of breath. If he was going to get the sack anyway…

"Mr. Potter … sir … I mean, er, Harry." Another breath. "Are you a wizard?"

* * *

"All squibs, sir, the lot of us." Martin sat back in his chair, much more relaxed now it seemed Harry wasn't going to have a heart attack right before his eyes. "Mum's a witch. She was terribly disappointed none of us kids showed the slightest sign of ever becoming wizards or witches. No Hogwarts letters for us, so we've had to make our way as Muggles. Dad was against the whole wizarding thing, anyway, and when mum married him she sort of gave it all up. But mum taught us a bit about … well, her world, I suppose you'd say. So when I saw the owls, you know, I wondered. Then when I heard … well, I am sorry for eavesdropping, sir—"

"Harry," Harry corrected.

Martin nodded. "But I've never known a wizard or a witch other than mum, and she kind of fell out of that world, you know, once she met dad. I apologise for being so nosy."

Harry smiled. "It's all right. It's a relief. I didn't want to have to obliviate you like I did Arcotte."

Martin froze.

"Never mind," Harry said. "I had to erase his memory, because he was a Muggle. You already know the basics. Do you know who Voldemort was?"

Martin gestured in a so-so way. "Evil wizard? Dead? It's all kind of vague, I'm afraid. It's been years."

"Well, you know enough, I guess," Harry said.

"So you and the professor are wizards," Martin said, hoping for details.

Harry nodded. "I've been … ill. He's helping me get better."

"Not too willingly, I'd say," Martin ventured. Harry smiled.

"No, not very. Maybe the one thing he and I agree on is that I'd be no great loss to the world." The smile faltered.

"But you're still here," Martin said. "You must want to live."

Harry said nothing.

"And he's helping, so he must want you to live too."

Harry shook his head. "He's doing this because a friend of his would have wanted it. A friend of ours."

Martin shrugged. "As long as he's doing it."

Harry stood up. "I'm keeping you from your lunch."

Martin stood as well. "I'm not sacked then?"

Harry smiled. "No. If you have any more questions you can ask them."

Martin grinned. "Thank you, sir. Harry."

* * *

Dear Mr. Potter;

As I said in my introduction, I don't know if I can help you. I expect I cannot, for unless I am very much mistaken you must ultimately help yourself. You have lost your confidence, your worth - your self. If it were in my keeping (an it were I should have cherished it), I should return it to you, but I cannot. You have been present at every moment of your own life, after all. If you cannot see your own courage and honor and goodness, I know of no mirror that will show it to you. What good are the words of a stranger? I know that what you did was right. I know that you did your best. I know that your motive was not glory but right, I know you did what no other could have done, and, yes, I know that you erred, underestimating your own power in the spell that both destroyed Voldemort and damaged Hogwarts. I know also that you are perhaps the most decent, courageous man I have ever known.

Perhaps it is I who should ask you: What can I do? How can I help? In the asking, you may find the path you need. Then ask. If I can give it, I will.

 

Harry smoothed his fingers over the letter, absorbing the kindness through his pores. He couldn't imagine who would be writing such words to him after all this time, but it … it soothed.

And that scared him. He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready to feel better. He didn't deserve it.

* * *

"We don't blame you, Harry," Molly Weasley had said through her tears, and Arthur had nodded in frantic agreement and Harry had nodded and smiled and felt his insides breaking.

The Weasleys were kind and good; they knew it would be unfair to blame Harry for war casualties, even if one of them was their only daughter, a victim of friendly fire. So they smiled and spoke the words, but the warmth was gone from their voices and their eyes, and Harry knew they did blame him, they all blamed him, even Ron - maybe especially Ron. They saw the Boy Who Lived and Lived and Lived while others died, while their only daughter died, and they hated him for it although they would never have admitted it.

He didn't talk to them after that, and when he left they never tried to contact him.

* * *

Dear …

I don't know what to call you. Please tell me your name, or a name, something for me to get hold of in my head. Your letters help. They really do. You're helping me to think, instead of just feeling. I've been unable to think for months. I thought I'd get over it if I let myself just feel it, feel the anger and the hurt. But I'm caught in a cycle of it and I couldn't see a way out. I still don't know if I can get free of it, but … but talking to you, writing to you, seems to help me. My thoughts are clearer on parchment. They're not any deeper or wiser, but I understand them better.

No one else has bothered to try to help. Well, Snape, in his nasty mean way, but no one else.

Maybe that's unfair, and I shouldn't expect or ask for help. But … I realize now that I need help. You're the first person to offer it. Thank you for that, even if it doesn't work in the end. Thank you.

Harry

***

Martin decided fairly quickly that it made more sense to alternate painting the inside and outside walls of the barn, so that when the fumes from within got to him he could work in the fresh air.

He was outside when Harry came up to him one chilly fall morning. Martin heard him crunch through the grass but finished the panel he was working on before stopping to look down.

"Good morning," Harry said.

Martin squinted at his employer. "You're looking better, sir, if I may say so." He was; in recent weeks he'd gained weight and color, and his walks around the grounds were notably less pitiful.

Harry grinned. "If you call me Harry you can say so. I feel better. Thanks to Snape's potions."

Martin came down the ladder and put down his roller. Harry sat on a tree stump and shoved up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

"So he's making this stuff for you once a month?" Martin asked.

Harry nodded.

"That's nice of him, eh?"

Harry scowled. "Nice? Snape? Sorry, you've lost me there."

"Well, he doesn't have to, right?"

"No, he doesn't."

"He must be fond of you, then."

Harry chuckled, derisive. Martin changed the subject.

"Would you mind telling me why you live like this? I mean, with Muggle servants and no friends or magic or anything?"

"Trying to get out of the work?" Harry said, clearly not meaning it. They were both well aware that other than the barn, Martin's only job these past months had been placing roses in the front hall on a regular basis.

Martin grinned. "Actually, it's pleasant work on a cool day like this. Especially out here, where the paint fumes don't knock you over. But I'm curious as to why you seem so …"

"Alone?"

Martin shrugged. "Yes. No wife, no girlfriend, no kids—"

Harry smiled. "Someone like me isn't likely to have a wife or girlfriend. Or kids."

Martin pondered that for a moment. "Oh."

"Does that bother you?"

Martin brushed off his hands - uselessly, the flecks of paint were already dry - and perched his butt on a lower ladder rung. "Nah. Had a mate in school who was gay. But that doesn't explain the rest of it."

Harry gazed off over the grounds and Martin added: "You don't have to say, of course, and I apologise if I'm being too nosy."

Without looking at him, Harry said, "About a year ago there was … a fight. A battle. A showdown. Good and evil." He shot Martin a bleak glance, showing clearly what he thought of those categories. "The good side won. But … I made a mistake. And people died. Friends of mine, people I knew, good people." He rubbed his hands together, briskly - too briskly - and laughed down at them. "I was … people expected a lot of me. I didn't live up to it. So … after … a lot of people hate me for it." He looked at Martin. "Those red letters the owls bring?"

Martin nodded.

"They're called howlers. You've heard the … the shouting, sometimes?"

Feeling bad, Martin nodded again. Murderer. Children. Dark lord.

Harry echoed the nod. "That's the letters from people who think I should be in Az - in prison for what I did."

"For a mistake you made in the heat of battle?" Martin asked.

"For a mistake that killed 12 innocent people," Harry said. "Sometimes … most of the time … I wonder if they aren't right. If maybe I'd feel better if I had been punished." He huffed out a harsh laugh. "Does that make sense at all?"

"You feel guilty. That makes sense. People feel guilty sometimes for things they oughtn't. Other way around, too." Martin pondered for a moment, while Harry looked over the half-painted barn.

"So are you a famous wizard?"

Harry's mouth quirked. "Infamous, now, more like."

"And that's why you're hiding out here."

Harry said nothing.

Martin winced. "Oh. Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

One sweatshirt clad shoulder moved up, down. "You're right."

Martin got up. "I'd best get back to work if I want to finish this side today." He started up the ladder, looked back at Harry as he got off the stump. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"For telling me."

Harry shrugged again. "You're welcome."

* * *

The next month, Snape walked in to the library and stopped cold in the door.

Harry squinted up at him from his sprawled place on the couch, but Snape had already started moving again, striding to the table, setting the valise on top and yanking out bottles and instruments.

"You look like hell," he snapped. A bottle tipped over and he caught it with a soft curse, setting it sharply upright.

"I had a bad couple of nights." Harry let his throbbing head loll against the back of the couch. "I dream, sometimes. Not usual dreams. Not even my usual dreams."

"That is a side effect of the curse Bellatrix used," Snape said, opening three tiny jars and setting them in a row.

"I dream about the school," Harry went on, still seeing it behind his open eyes. "I see Dumbledore. Ginny. Colin. Hagrid. Their faces are pressed against the windows of the south tower. They're watching me and Voldemort. When … when I kill him … when the curse hits … I can still see them. The look on their faces. I hear Ginny scream 'How could you!' and then it all shatters -"

"Stop it." Snape's voice hit like a broadsword, and Harry winced as the sound made his head throb harder. He relaxed and breathed deeply, trying to will the blinding pain away, listening to the clink of glass and metal. Either his hearing was exceptionally acute today or Snape was less graceful than usual in his preparations.

After a bit, in a quieter but no less angry voice, Snape went on.

"You realize it was Cornelius Fudge who spread the story of what happened? Who fanned the hatred, played up the deaths and minimized your part in destroying Voldemort and generally encouraged the public to look at you as the next candidate for Dark Lord?"

Harry nodded. "He didn't find it too hard, though, did he? He had the ammunition. Twelve dead. Three professors, nine little kids." He pressed a hand against his eyes to prevent himself automatically listing them in his mind.

"Casualties of war, Potter," Snape rapped out sharply. "A war you helped to win."

Harry looked at the latest letter from … from his friend, lying on the table beside the couch.

"Funny how no one remembers that," he said quietly, reaching out to slide the letter closer, pick it up.

"Again, thank you for dismissing my existence."

"Sorry. Sorry." Harry turned the letter over, getting a faint whiff of the pleasant musky scent. He pressed it between both hands and lay back against the cushions. One friend. He had one friend in the wizarding world.

He dozed off and on, waking at last at the loud click of the valise being closed.

Snape brought a sherry glass filled with blue sparking liquid over to the couch. Harry lifted his head as Snape stood over him. The professor shook his head, a tiny motion, and slid one hand behind Harry's head to steady it as the other tipped the fluid down Harry's throat.

Holding the letter against his chest to keep it out of the way, Harry closed his eyes against the familiar tingling burn of the healing potion, swallowing automatically, trying not to taste it.

After his final swallow he looked up at Snape, puzzled. "Your hands are shaking."

Snape jerked back and turned away, setting the empty sherry glass on the table, where it promptly tipped and rolled to the floor. Harry sat up as Snape headed for the door.

"Professor? Are you okay?"

* * *

The professor burst out of the library as Martin was clearing the last of the wilting flowers from the vases.

Kneeling beside a tall porcelain urn, Martin watched him grab the door handle and place his free hand on the wall, fingers splayed, next to his head. He was trembling.

"Sir?" Martin dropped the dead blooms and got up, taking a wary step forward. "Are you all right?"

The hand clenched and the head snapped 'round. At the expression on the professor's face, Martin moved closer involuntarily.

"Sir? Are you well? Can I ..?"

The professor made a sound, low in his throat, and wrenched the door open, striding off down the steps and into the lane before Martin could stop him.

Martin stood in the doorway, letting his outstretched hand slowly fall, and watched him go.

"Professor Snape..?"

Martin turned. Harry stood in the library doorway, one hand on the wall for balance, the other holding a black bag. Harry and Martin exchanged a look.

"He forgot his bag," Harry said.

"He's gone, sir," Martin replied, closing the front door. "He seemed …" He sought for the right words, not wanting to be dramatic. "Upset."

Harry looked at the bag, heavy in his hand. "I wonder why."

"Perhaps he's worried about you," Martin ventured.

Harry's mouth tweaked into a brief smirk.

Martin returned to the vase he'd been clearing out, collecting the dried-out stems in both hands. "Is that so impossible?" He pulled the dead flowers out and looked at Harry, still gazing down at the valise.

"Harry?"

The messy head lifted. "Oh. Sorry. Um …"

"I said is it so impossible he might be worried about you." Martin repeated.

Harry shook his head. "I don't know. Goodnight, Martin." He ducked back inside the library and shut the doors quietly.

* * *

Dear Harry;

I cannot give you a name yet; any name I might give would be a lie and I have never lied to you. I would prefer not to start. I can give you no details to hold on to that matter. Not yet, for if I do my scant hope of helping you will be destroyed. You may know that I am older than you. I am a wizard. I am someone you know.

He thought, with a wild flutter of hope in his chest: Ron. But he knew it couldn't be. He remembered the last time they'd met, at the memorial service. The pain of that encounter closed around his throat like a claw even now, a year later. The whole Weasley family, Ron right there with them, speaking to him, smiling at him, avoiding him completely - not physically, but emotionally. The warmth he'd always felt from them was gone, a cold and gaping absence that made him limp stumbling from the chapel and lean on an ancient, tilted gravestone, fighting not to weep, not to be sick.

He'd watched everyone leave the chapel. He was in plain view, standing there in the little graveyard, but not one red head turned toward him. Not one.

 

Harry closed his eyes briefly. No, the letters weren't from Ron.

 

And I know you. I know of your guilt, your anger, your helpless rage. I know that, sometimes, you wish you could kill them all, make them stop pointing their fingers at you in ignorant fear and accusation. I know that sometimes you wish you had died, that sometimes you hate yourself with a blinding hatred.

I know of your nightmares. I wish that I might wake you from them. I wish I might hold you, comfort you, make you believe things will be better.

But I cannot make you live. I can only be here, waiting on the other side, striving to assure you that you deserve to, that I wish you to, that I beg you to. Please, Harry, please, stop hating yourself and live.

 

Harry set the letter down, the flutter back in his chest. Whoever it was, it sounded … it sounded like he cared, like he …

"Like he … loves me," Harry whispered.

* * *

Harry dipped the quill and wrote fast, before he lost his nerve.

 

Your letters have meant more to me than I can say. Just having someone understand, someone who seems to care about me - even though I can't figure out why - feels like the sun coming out after a year of darkness.

I want to meet you. Will you come to me here? I want to see you. I want to hear you laugh and see you smile and - everything. I'm sorry I'm not very coherent, but I'm scared to death writing this. I don't even know who you are. Please come to me. I won't try to hold you here or ask anything of you you don't want.

Your letters have changed my life. Please let me see, and thank, the man behind them. Please.

Harry

* * *

Snape stood in the doorway as though reporting for his own execution.

"I've come for my bag."

Harry nodded toward the hall table. "It's here. Come in."

Snape went directly to the table and laid both hands on the valise.

"I tried to catch you, but you were already gone," Harry said.

The hands tightened on the bag but Snape made no explanation.

"Professor?"

Snape stopped.

"Um … do you … would you like to stay for dinner? Rita's making roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and it's excellent."

Snape looked at him, still, expressionless.

"And … well …" Harry shrugged. "Just thought I'd ask."

Snape's gaze fell, as if the words he needed were written on the marble floor. "Thank you," he said carefully. "I will stay for dinner."

Harry stared. Snape smirked.

"You expected me to refuse."

Harry blinked. "I'm not sure what I expected. I suppose so."

Snape crossed his arms. "It's not too late to rescind the invitation, Potter. After all, this is perilously close to taking an interest in something other than your own misery."

"I'm not rescinding the invitation, you fucking bastard," Harry said - then chuckled as he realized what he'd said. "Come on. There's time for a glass of sherry or something before dinner."

Snape followed him back to the library. "Whence this outburst of gregarious behaviour?"

Harry smiled a secret smile. "I've been encouraged to come out of my shell. I thought I'd start with small steps, you know?"

"Will miracles never cease? Harry Potter has decided to stop feeling sorry for himself?"

"I'm not sure I ever really made a decision about that the first time," Harry said, his good humor dented but not destroyed. After all, what had he expected when he asked Snape to stay? A pleasant evening? With an effort he added, "I've also been reminded lately how much I owe you. I thought this would be a small way of showing you that I really do appreciate it."

He opened the library door and ushered a surprised-looking Snape inside. The professor entered without further comment.

They settled before the fire with brandy and an awkward, almost-pleasant silence. A silence broken with inevitable clumsiness by Harry.

"Do you miss him? Dumbledore?"

Snape closed his eyes and Harry prepared himself to repel insults.

"Daily," Snape said, his voice almost vanishing into the crackle of the fire.

Harry's throat clenched and he focused for a while on breathing, on not sobbing, not humiliating himself in front of Snape. He was still blinking away the excess moisture when Snape said, still very quietly:

"It was not your fault."

Harry whispered, "If you believe that, you're the only one who does."

Snape turned to him, eyes and voice fierce, low. "It is you who needs to believe it."

Harry shook his head, seeing in his mind's eye the collapse of the tower, slow, hellishly slow, slow enough for him to realize every person inside would die. "I … can't."

Snape flung his snifter into the fire and sprang out of the chair. Harry flinched back from the spitting flames and blinked at Snape as the man stormed out of the room, slamming the doors behind him. By the time Harry got to his feet and to the doors, Snape had gone.

* * *

Martin thought he shouldn't be surprised any more that Harry did things like come down to the kitchen and eat lunch with him. He supposed that given Harry's choices, he was the best of an uninspired lot for conversation and some kind of company.

Rita brought them two beers at Harry's request and went back to her breadmaking, giggling stupidly.

Martin rolled his eyes at Harry and they clinked beer bottles together, then started on their roast beef sandwiches. Martin had a suspicion, from the way Harry picked at his, that something was on his mind. He ate first, giving Harry the chance to volunteer the information, but he finished his sandwich without Harry speaking of anything but the progress on the barn - it transpired that he was thinking of making it into a gymnasium-cum-study for his personal edification. It also turned out he didn't really know what he was going to do with it.

"I just thought I should do something," Harry admitted. "That's pretty pathetic, isn't it?"

Martin shrugged. "You're what, 20?"

Harry nodded.

"I'm eight years older than you and I'm painting your barn for a living. I don't think I'm the best person to judge your ambitions."

Harry grinned wryly. "You seem content. That's the difference."

Spotting the opening, Martin said, "And you seem a bit … er … preoccupied. Something wrong?"

"Snape," Harry said instantly. "I asked him to stay for dinner last night - "

"Whoo-hoo," Martin hooted, and Harry punched him lightly on the shoulder.

"Not like that. Christ, Snape would kill me if I ever even hinted …" Harry shook his head. "It's just … you're always reminding me what he's doing for me, and how ungrateful I've been. I thought at least I could offer him dinner, you know."

Martin started to protest that he hadn't meant to imply Harry was ungrateful, but in honesty he'd thought so, and Harry overrode him before he could come up with the right thing to say.

"I … I offended him, somehow, and I feel …" Harry laughed. "I feel bad. I can't believe it."

"Why?" Martin asked. "You're a decent enough bloke, it seems to me."

"Yes, but we hate each other. Well, perhaps I don't hate him. But he hates me, and he treats me like shit. So why should I feel bad?"

"Er … you've got two cards there that don't make a pair," Martin said. "Discard one."

Harry blinked at him. Stared. For a long time.

"Harry?" Martin prodded. "You all right?"

Harry shook his head. "Yeah. It just … struck me what you said." He covered his mouth with one hand and stared thoughtfully into space for a while.

Martin drained his beer. "I've got to get back to work. Oh - what about those letters you were getting? Not the hellers, the nice ones?"

Harry dropped his hand, smiled. "Howlers. I'm still getting the nice ones."

"Do you know who it is yet?" Martin got up, brushing crumbs from his hands.

"No," Harry admitted.

"Do you know you're blushing?" Martin asked in the same voice.

"Piss off," Harry said, still red. He drained his own beer and stood.

Martin grinned. "I'd best get back to work." Harry waved and limped off upstairs, and Martin headed for the back door that opened into the kitchen garden.

* * *

Dear Harry;

I will not come to you. I will not be an accessory to your hiding. When you are ready, tell me, and we'll meet in Hogsmeade at the Three Broomsticks. Yes, this is deliberate. You must face your past. I don't say forget, but you must stop allowing your pain and the hatred of others to cripple you. You must face the world of which you were once a part, if you are ever to be free of these chains of guilt and anger. You have much to offer our world, much to experience and enjoy. I want you to live again and I want to see it. I want to be part of your life. I want to be all of your life, but that is foolishness speaking, and though I write it here, in my safe anonymity, I do not hope for it.

When you are ready, tell me.

 

* * *

"Er … Harry?"

Harry glanced up from the letter to see Martin poking his head in the open door. "Come on in. I was just …"

Martin approached, saw the letter between Harry's fidgety fingers. "The word's mooning, I think." He grinned.

"Prat." Harry rubbed at his cheek, knowing he was red again. "Did you need something?"

Martin pushed his hands into his pockets. "Well, it's a bit roundabout. I went into the village last weekend, you know, to … er … reconnoitre the pub and all, and I met a girl who works there."

Harry grinned. "I see."

Martin shrugged. "And we got to talking, and this is her half day, and I wanted to meet her for some chat, but …"

Puzzlement erased Harry's grin. "You need an advance on your wages? Sure—"

Martin waved that away. "No, no. No, I'm good there, Harry. Thanks. But it's 10 uphill miles to the village, and I didn't mind the walk or getting dusty and sweaty when I didn't know there was this girl at the other end of it, but … well, I'd like to arrive a bit … fresher this time …"

Harry held his scowl to indicate the need for further information.

"And I've no car, as you know," Martin went on, a little red-faced himself now. "So I thought I'd call a taxi…"

Finally realizing where Martin was headed, Harry smirked.

Martin let out a huff of annoyance. "So where's the blasted telephone?"

Forcing a straight face, Harry said, "I could just give you a ride on my broomstick."

Instead of horror, delight appeared on Martin's face. "Could you? That'd be brilliant."

"I was joking," Harry said. Martin's disappointment was comically obvious.

"Bugger. Thought I'd really get to ride a broomstick once."

"Do you want to?" Harry asked, feeling the idea suddenly become possible, tingling inside him like a gulp of whisky. Could he? He hadn't flown, hadn't left the grounds, in months.

"Would you?" Martin asked. "I mean … what if someone saw us? What if I fell off?"

"You'd look a right berk," Harry said. "But you won't. I can see to it no one spots us in the air, and I can land you someplace hidden. If you're sure," he added, a warning. "It's a bit … unsettling the first time."

Martin smiled. "All the best stuff is."

* * *

Martin followed Harry into the cloakroom under the main stair and stood back as Harry knelt before a long, dusty chest against one wall. He unlocked and opened it, then threw back the cloth, grasping the smooth wood handle and pulling out his gleaming Firebolt.

What am I doing?

His anonymous friend would say he was living again. Snape would probably say he was choosing to come out of his shell in a typically childish and self-indulgent manner.

Harry grinned. Unanimous approval.

"Wow…" Martin eyed the Firebolt. "That's no ordinary sweeper."

Harry glanced at him. "Ready to fly?"

Nervously, Martin nodded. Then blurted, "Oh! Wait. Bloody hell! Can't meet Cilla looking like this! I have to change!" He ran out of the room and Harry laughed, going into the front hall to wait.

* * *

Martin straddled the Firebolt behind Harry and clutched awkwardly at his waist.

"Just hold on and relax," Harry said. "Balance as though you were on a bike."

"How are you going to keep people from seeing us?" Martin asked.

"I have an invisibility cloak, but it flaps around, so I'll just use a spell." Harry felt Martin tense behind him, and chuckled, suddenly euphoric. "Relax. It won't hurt. You won't feel a thing." He slid his wand out of the pocket sewn into his jeans and swirled it over them.

"You've had that there the whole time?" Martin asked.

" _Invisibilo_." The tingle of magic washed over them, too quick for Harry to feel the flash of black fear he generally had to withstand when working spells. Martin gasped.

"I always keep my wand on me," Harry answered the question, glancing down to ensure they and the broom were invisible.

"Sounds like the punchline to a joke," Martin said. He was breathing a little fast. "I can't see us. I can't see me."

"Relax," Harry said. "I'll take it off when we get there. Are you ready? Just lean against me, hang on and let me do the work. Close your eyes at first if you feel dizzy." Harry kicked off.

"Holy shit!" Martin grabbed at his waist - and they were airborne.

* * *

Harry laughed as Martin patted his newly re-visible self down to make sure nothing had got left behind.

"Go on." He waved Martin out of the thick stand of trees in the direction of the pub. "Have a good time."

Reassured he was whole, Martin grinned at him. "Thanks, Harry. That was amazing."

Harry waved again. "I won't wait up. Get a taxi back when you're done." He mounted his broom, watched Martin stroll out of the trees and onto the village high road, and re-cast invisibilo on himself before launching back into the sky.

He flew fast, not out of eagerness to get home but out of sheer pleasure, doing loops and dives, drunk on exhilaration, on freedom.

He couldn't wait to write to his mysterious friend, tell him what he'd done, how it felt. How long had it been, and had it always been as simple as this?

Harry laughed aloud, as befuddled as he was happy, and zipped over the quiet green fields toward Waverly Hall. Without setting a foot to the ground, he knew he'd taken a step toward his future.

* * *

Harry was still trying to swallow away the horrid aftertaste of the potion on his tongue when Snape, his back to Harry as he methodically replacing his stocks in the valise, said, "You are nearly cured."

Harry smiled. Then realised what that meant. Once he was well, Snape would have no reason to come here again.

Christ. That bothered him. It wasn't like he didn't have anyone to talk to; he felt that Martin had become a friend, even though he didn't really know who Harry was…

And that was it. Snape knew him. Snape knew exactly what he was, the best and worst of it. Despite the constant sarcasm and insults and lack of emotional support, Harry wanted Snape to keep coming. He … Harry shook his head at himself - he liked it? At the very least, Snape's antagonism brought his brain to life again, just as Snape's potion had helped repair his body.

Maybe he did like it. Or at least, the sane part of him recognized that Snape was helping him, however inadvertently.

"Thank you," he said softly. Snape kept packing and said nothing.

Harry remembered, on the battlefield, just before the end, when Hermione fell, how Snape had stopped. He'd knelt over her, his own defenses forgotten for the pitifully few seconds it took him to determine that she was beyond his help. He'd never thanked Snape for that.

He swallowed again, this time for reasons other than potion aftertaste. "Will you … when … after I'm better, will you … will you come back? I mean, just to visit."

Snape stiffened visibly, stopped working.

"If you want," Harry added lamely. "If -"

Harry nearly jumped out of his shoes when Snape slammed a fist down on the table and roared, "No!"

He spun and Harry stepped back, heart thrumming in his throat.

"No. I will not come back here. I will not …" Snape bared his teeth and snarled the word, "visit you in this cowardly exile you've chosen. No, I will not be an accessory to the crimes you are committing upon yourself." He was shaking, and Harry swallowed, mouth suddenly dust-dry. "No, Mr. Potter, I will not."

Harry backed away and Snape turned to close up the valise; in those few seconds Harry recovered his balance, and, with it, a tight thread of anger.

"I s'pose I can't live up to anybody's expectations, can I? Then again, I never could live up to yours. Christ, what difference does it make if I shut myself up here until I die?"

Snape picked up his bag and faced Harry again. "To me, or to you?"

"To anyone! No one out there misses me, and I sure as hell don't miss being treated like a murderer. My whole life people tried to make me into a weapon against Voldemort, and I went along. I was a good boy and did what they wanted, and I thought - like a fool - that when it was done, if I succeeded, at least they'd let me alone."

The thread of anger tightened, making his head and chest ache, making his blood pound in his ears.

"But it didn't end with … with the war, with the people I killed. Not for me. It went on, weeks of it, inquiries and attacks and smear stories and people I used to trust accusing me or avoiding me.

"Not one fucking person, not Ron, not McGonagall, not Remus or anyone, stood by me. None of the people I loved and trusted, not one, was there for me - because they didn't need me any more, did they? They used me to wipe up their mess, then, because I missed a spot, they threw me away. My friends threw me away, and the rest of the wizarding world cheered."

Harry choked in a breath. "I don't expect you to understand this, but it hurt. It hurt too much. Christ, Snape, haven't you ever hurt?"

Snape leaned toward him, his face pinched, and Harry balked, unable to pinpoint the emotion he saw. It wasn't anger. It looked like … like—

Snape's jaw snapped tight and he drew back.

"So be it," he said, his voice low, seething. He turned and strode to the door. "Rest in peace, Mr. Potter."

He was out the door in a moment; Harry, his blood boiling up inside him, hesitated only a moment before fury propelled him after.

Snape flung open the front door and strode out, and Harry sprinted to catch up. He grabbed Snape and jerked him to a halt, an inch from hitting him. "You son of a —"

The valise hit the ground. Snape seized his shoulders and slammed him against the nearest marble column, and Harry's surprise nearly exploded into panic; he'd forgotten the raw fear of physical confrontation in this last, isolate year.

Snape shook him, once, hard, nearly lifting him off his feet, then yanked him close, against his body, covering Harry's open mouth with his.

The heat, the closeness, the utter unexpectedness of it fed Harry's panic, and he froze for an instant. Then Snape's tongue stroked over his, wet, intimate, and dark fire poured through him, astounding, dizzying, jolting his heart into a frantic racing patter against his ribs.

Snape shoved him away and he hit the pillar, coughing air into his shocked lungs. Blinking to clear his vision, he looked up wildly, tried to speak, but Snape was gone into the night as swiftly as if he'd Apparated.

Burning all over, gasping, Harry slid down the pillar and sat trembling on his heels, the inside of his head a whirl of bewilderment. "Bloody hell …"

* * *

I'm ready to meet you. Name the day and the time. Only make it soon. I'm ready to stop this hiding, or whatever you want to call it, but I'm scared and I want you to be there. Please.

Harry

* * *

Smashed into the farthest dark crevice of a shadowy corner booth, Harry clutched the short note - Noon, Thursday, Three Broomsticks - in both hands, hands that were paradoxically both cold and sweating.

Taking the tattered remnants of his courage in both hands, he'd apparated to Hogsmeade and walked the length of the main street in a chill wintry drizzle, feeling himself flinch like an abused dog every time someone looked at him or made a nasty muttered comment as they passed. Considering he'd been invisible to the wizarding world for more than a year, the vitriol seemed fairly fresh. He was reasonably sure he was shaking by the time he reached the door of the pub.

He could comment back, or scream or pull out his wand. Certainly. He'd tried all that and more in the weeks after he'd killed Voldemort. It only affirmed that he was a monster, angry, powerful, out of control and willing to hurt or kill anyone who got in his way. After a while he'd just got sick of all of it.

And here he was, back for more.

Harry looked at the note. No, not for more. Back for something else. Back in the land of the living. He remembered something in one of the mystery letters: trying to isolate yourself, you only sealed yourself inside a little world with those who hate you. Those fools who send you the howlers that are your daily bread are not the majority. People do forget. They do forgive. Beyond that, you must learn not to care what strangers think of you. Permit men the fallibility you feel they did not permit you, and do not let fools govern or ruin your life.

Not without some bitterness, Harry reminded himself that of the people he'd passed on the road getting here, only a few had glared or made scathing remarks. Perhaps people were forgetting, if not forgiving.

"Potter."

Harry started and slipped his hand under the table, fingertips touching the end of his wand.

A burly wizard with a ragged grey beard, leaving the pub with a small, tired looking witch, had spotted him and shifted direction, lumbering toward Harry, who tried to sit straight, to not overreact.

"Harry Potter," he snarled through the gap in his front teeth as the woman wavered in a nervous dance behind him.

"Do I know you?" Harry said.

"Know me? Mad murderin' bastard. You got a lot o' nerve comin' back here, you …" He raised a meaty hand and Harry grasped his wand.

"Karl!" The woman grabbed his arm, casting a wide-eyed glance of fear at Harry. "Don't!"

Rosmerta and one of the barmen started toward the disturbance; the bearded wizard glanced at them and backed off.

"Bastard!" he spat in farewell as his wife dragged him from the pub. Rosmerta and the barman watched them leave.

Harry did as well, breathing shallowly.

I should go, I should just go home. I can't do this, it's too soon.

He glanced around, wondering if anyone else was going to attack him, starting when Rosmerta appeared at the table, whisky in hand.

"Sorry, Harry," she said softly. "I don't hold with people accosting customers. I won't let you be troubled again." She set the whisky on the table, almost out of his reach, as though she too feared him. People looked at him, long curious looks or short nasty glares, but no one else approached or spoke.

"Who was he?" he asked. Rosmerta wouldn't meet his eyes.

"His name's Karl Kilgarran. He had a nephew at the school." She scurried away and Harry closed his eyes for a moment.

It never ended. It never fucking ended.

He cursed, picked up the whisky and drained it, looking at the invitingly open bar door and giving a passing thought to escape.

Then he saw Snape. The professor stood across the street, looking at the Three Broomsticks.

Harry jumped up and slid past a startled Rosmerta.

"Sorry," he said. "I'll be back. Hold the table." He darted out the door and jogged across the wet street.

"Professor!"

Snape spotted him and his eyes widened a bit. Harry slipped past a knot of shoppers, firmly not thinking about their startled reactions, the way they pulled away as he passed.

He splashed through a puddle and stopped in front of Snape.

"Professor." He caught his breath, realizing Snape looked a trifle … uneasy.

"I'm glad I saw you. I wanted to apologise."

Snape's expression shifted from wariness to astonishment.

"You are apologising to me?"

Harry smiled. He was already nervous; having to have this conversation with Snape in the street wasn't doing anything to settle his twitching nerves. But he wasn't about to waste the chance to talk to him, after what had happened.

"For yelling at you. For saying things I didn't mean. For being … for taking things out on you that aren't your fault, just because you're there. For not appreciating that you are there. That you've sort of … always been there."

It started to drizzle again. Snape was still staring, brow furrowed, as if waiting for Harry to suddenly change tacks and hex him.

"Listen, professor - I've got to go." Harry inched back toward the pub. "I'm meeting someone."

Snape almost smiled, a split-second gentling Harry'd never seen before. "Then go."

"Yes, but … you will come back? And not just for the potion," he added firmly. "We should talk about … what happened."

Snape started to speak. Shut his mouth, a thin line of second thoughts. Then said, "Let us wait and see."

Harry stopped backing toward the pub. "Wait and see? What's that supposed to mean? You k—" He lowered his voice as Snape tensed in sudden alarm. "You kissed me, for Christ's sake."

Snape ground his jaw, obviously forcing out words. "I … should not have -"

The town bells tolled noon and Harry jumped. "Shit. I've got to go. Promise you'll come back. Or we'll meet. Here. Somewhere. Anywhere. It doesn't matter. I mean it. We need to talk."

Snape didn't insult him or roll his eyes or sigh or any of the usual things; instead he held Harry's gaze and said, "I'll come back."

Something inside Harry shivered. He shook it off, forced a smile, brushing his rain-dampened hair out of his face.

"Good. Excellent. I have to go. I'll see you." He waved and spun, hurrying through the muttering shoppers back to the Three Broomsticks, leaving Snape standing there.

He scooted back into the corner of his booth and sat there, damp, jittery, torn, longing to meet his mysterious benefactor and friend and anxious to talk to Snape again, fearful the professor wouldn't show up again, despite his words, and that Harry would be left wondering what the hell all that had been about and why it had affected him so much. Why it had affected him the way it had. He was lonely, of course, but … and why the hell had Snape done it? If he hadn't already had the appointment to meet his mystery friend, Harry would have latched on to Snape and wrung an explanation out of him if it took a year. Which it probably would, with Snape.

Also, if he was not completely misunderstanding the emotion underlying the words he'd been reading for the past many months, he and his mysterious friend would have to have a similar sort of conversation. Harry was looking forward to that one with a kind of pleasant terror.

He was fishing around in his pockets for the note, fearing he'd lost it when he'd scampered out to speak to Snape, when he felt a presence approach the table.

He looked up and forgot about the note. Snape stood there, hands in the pockets of his coat.

"Professor …" Harry said, then felt the creeping, off-balance realization that his grasp on things was slipping. "P—professor?"

Snape slid into the booth, looked at Harry for a moment in unreadable silence, then raised his hand to the table and pushed a folded sheet of parchment across its scarred surface.

Harry took it, fumbled it open.

 

Dear Harry;

I don't dare essay what you are feeling, but I know what you are thinking. How? Why?

It was in that moment when you first confronted Voldemort. I watched you; I could not have done otherwise. I saw you strong, confident, radiant with courage and power unclouded by doubt or fear, and in that moment I was lost. An old, tainted, damaged man, I was lost utterly and could no more have spoken of it than I could have conjured up Merlin from the dead. This - this thin ink and dry parchment - was as much as I dared. When I call you coward, Harry, I speak from experience.

But even cowards may one day reach the ends of their ropes, and so I am here.

Severus Snape

 

Harry raised glazed eyes to the man sitting stiff and wary across the table.

"It was you." His voice came out the merest whisper. He stared, his mind blank, waiting for the laughter, the denial, the mockery, anything to make sense of this. Anything but Snape's almost penitent silence.

"No." Harry shook his head slowly. "This isn't possible. You wouldn't. You couldn't." It couldn't be true. It had to be … "This was a trick, wasn't it? A ploy to make me leave my house, to come here again. Wasn't it?"

Snape closed his eyes briefly, like a sigh.

"Say something!"

Snape delivered a significant glance at the letter in Harry's fingers.

"Have I not said enough?"

Harry held it up, an accusation. "This can't be you."

Snape shrugged minutely. "I know. But it is."

At the defeated slump of Snape's shoulders, Harry's anger crumbled into pleading. "This can't be you. You hate me." He healed you. He kissed you. He—

"Professor Snape!"

They both jumped at the familiar voice, Snape straightening and Harry recoiling further into the shadows.

Headmistress McGonagall stood just inside the doorway, shaking rain off her tartan cloak, with Cornelius Fudge, Flitwick, Trelawney and a young man Harry recognized as a reporter for the Daily Prophet.

"Fuck," he said.

Snape got up quickly, placing himself in the line of sight between Harry and the new arrivals. Over his shoulder he said, low:

"Wait. I'll get rid of them."

 

Rosmerta watched Snape join the new arrivals and steer them to a table across the room. She went to the table and, as each requested his or her usual tipple, listened enough to learn that the Daily Prophet was doing a story on the conclusion of the repairs at Hogwarts, that Fudge wanted to take all the credit, that Trelawney had foreseen that the reconstruction would be done exactly on the day it had finished, and that Snape was frantic to get away from the self-congratulatory group as quickly as possible. He made his excuses with as much politeness as Rosmerta had ever seen from him, which wasn't saying much, and followed her back across the room.

"That's a cheery bunch," she remarked. "Guess you aren't sorry you won't be drinkin' with them today. Half a minute."

Snape hurried back to the corner booth. Rosmerta went to the counter, placed the group's order - on Fudge's tab - and when she turned around again, Snape stood at the edge of the table, his fingertips resting on the top.

Rosmerta sauntered over. "Now, can I … what is it, professor?"

Snape bowed his head. Rosmerta peered past him into the shadowy corners of the table.

"Blimey," she observed. "Harry's gone."

* * *

Martin, Rita and Barlow were in the kitchen having an early and rather morose tea on a blustery winter day when the mellow ding of a distant bell made them look up.

"What was that?" Rita piped up.

Barlow humphed. "The doorbell, you featherheaded chit."

Though, truth to tell, he'd never heard it before either, Martin rolled his eyes in sympathy; Rita really was a good soul, but she wasn't the sharpest awl in the toolbox.

Martin then jumped up as Barlow began the slow creaky process of easing to his feet. "I'll get it."

"It's not really proper…" Barlow pretended to protest, but he was already easing back down.

"This isn't exactly a proper house," Martin said. The bell rang again and he dashed up the stairs.

It was Snape, sans valise and looking a bit windblown and wretched, if Martin was any judge.

Martin let him in, said, as Snape headed toward the library, "He's not in there."

Snape stopped, turned.

"He's not got up yet," Martin said, nodding toward the upper storeys. "He's not been feeling well."

Concern darkened Snape's already dark brow and Martin thought, If this man hates Harry, I'm a full-blown witch in a pink tutu.

Then Snape was brushing past him and gliding up the broad staircase. Martin considered that the proper thing to do, probably, was to stop him. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets and headed back downstairs, whistling, to finish his tea.

* * *

Snape burst in to Harry's bedroom to see him up and dressed, pacing in front of the window, pale, his eyes dark-circled and a thick packet of dun-colored parchment in his hands.

His letters.

Harry started, stared.

Snape groped for something to say, an excuse for crashing in uninvited.

Then a smile flickered onto Harry's face, and Snape forgot his attempted excuses.

"You came," Harry said.

For a very different reason, Snape found himself again unable to speak.

"C-come in." Awkward, Harry waved him into the room, and Snape obeyed, shutting the door behind him.

"You look terrible," he said, barely above a whisper.

Harry nodded, sitting on the edge of the windowseat. Snape moved slowly nearer as Harry spoke, his voice shorn of emotion though his hands twisted and clenched on the letters.

"The dream again. I had it over and over. Woke up exhausted. But this time, I saw your face in the tower window. When it collapsed, I knew I'd lost you along with everyone else. When Bellatrix's curse hit me and I felt that overwhelming darkness … this time, I just let it take me."

Snape turned away, fists knotted. Harry set the packet of letters on the windowseat, beside a battered copy of Hogwarts: A History, and got up.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry for the way I've acted." His fingertips brushed Snape's sleeve, as if he were afraid to actually touch him. "Give me another chance. I'll do better."

Snape flinched, turned to him. "Harry…"

"I was surprised," Harry went on. "Well, a lot more than surprised. You're very … well, unforgiving. But the letters - your letters were so …" He flushed, lowered his eyes. "Loving. I couldn't bring the two together. I was … stunned, really. That, plus all the people … it was too much at once."

Snape exhaled, a soft, pained laugh.

"I was going to come to Hogwarts," Harry said, a plea rather than a boast. "Ask Minerva," he added, though Snape showed no indication of doubting him. "I firecalled her this morning. She was … polite. I mean …"

"No one who knows you hates you for what happened," Snape said. "Minerva loved Albus. People who are grieving behave badly, sometimes."

Harry laughed. "I guess I should know that, shouldn't I? Anyway, I told her to expect me at Hogwarts. I was going to come to you." He glanced out the window. "I didn't think you'd come to me."

"I said that I would," Snape reminded him.

"Oh." Harry felt his heart descend a few uncomfortable inches in his chest. "Is that why you came? Just because you said you would?"

Snape shook his head fractionally.

"Good." Harry allowed his fingers to rest on Snape's arm, lightly. "Will you forgive me for … for not … for being so caught off guard?"

Snape's lip twisted, a wry half-smile. "If I had not expected you to be shocked, I would have handled this whole disaster in a more forthright way, don't you think?"

"I suppose," Harry didn't quite agree. "I wish you had more faith in me, but I haven't deserved it. You're a better judge of me than I am."

Snape snorted. "Mr. Potter. Look at me. My … my affections—" He sneered the word, "—are hardly a great gift to anyone."

Harry gazed at him in wonder, shaking his head. "Are you joking? You … Christ … you love me." He blushed, feeling a stupid smile spread over his face, but decided it was worth it for the way it brightened Snape's expression. "You loved me in spite of everything. In spite of the self-absorbed miserable arsehole I was being. Do you have any idea how much that means to me? You saved my life twice over." He squeezed Snape's arm impulsively. "I can't … nobody's ever …"

"Articulate as always, I see," Snape mocked.

Then Harry was in front of him, gazing up, questioning, alive.

"May I kiss you?"

Snape's mouth twisted. "I did not do you the courtesy of asking."

Harry smiled. "Then I won't either." He let his fingertips line either side of Snape's neck and guided his head down, pressing his smile to Snape's uncertain frown. With light, chaste touches, he let his smile erase Snape's frown before allowing his tongue to taste of the softer expression that replaced it. Snape parted his own lips, his faint sigh aphrodisiac to Harry's blood. Their tongues embraced and the dark fire again poured through Harry's body. Oh yes … that was it. Mint and tea and Snape and … oh yes …

The sensations closed over his head like warm water as they tasted each other, hunger tipping toward urgency until Snape took firm hold of Harry's arms and eased him back, just a little, so both of them could gasp in some much-needed air.

Eyes still closed, Harry sighed. "Oh. Was that bloody amazing, or has it been that long?"

Snape laughed softly, his cheek against Harry's temple. "I'm scarcely the best judge." He slid his arms hard around Harry, making him purr.

Harry twisted his fingers into Snape's hair. "More," he murmured, and pulled their faces together. The heat sprang up instantly this time, the kisses deeper, demanding, and when the need to breathe forced them apart this time, both men groaned.

Then chuckled.

Harry breathed in Snape's scent for a moment, then lifted his face.

"Yes," he decided. "Bloody amazing."

Snape's chest jumped in a silent laugh. Then he tilted his head, looking past Harry. "Is that ..?"

Harry followed Snape's gaze to his Firebolt, lying across the windowseat.

"I've been flying," he said. "If I left it downstairs Rita'd be using it to sweep the stoop." He shook his head in mock-amaze.

Snape almost smiled. "You're whole again. Or nearly."

"Thanks to you," Harry said, then, testing the word, "Severus."

That did it; Snape smiled. Typically, it didn't last.

"You don't need me now." Snape eased his hold - and Harry tightened his.

"Oh no you don't. Not after everything you did. I don't need your potion. I do need you. It just took me a … a metaphorical heavy blow to the head to realize it."

"Harry…" Snape's voice was ragged with emotion. "You know what I am—"

But Harry wasn't having any. "And you know what I am. And you're here anyway."

"I … I cannot give you pretty words …"

Harry smiled, thinking of the letters. "Yes you can." He looked up, holding Snape's gaze. "But you don't have to. I like you just the way you are. But …"

"But what?"

Harry grinned. "Sometimes - just once in a while - will you write me a letter?"

 

The End


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